


Meet Me Inside

by RedBerrie



Series: Helpless [3]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alexander Is a Little Shit, And Washington Is Having None Of It, Canon Era, Corporal Punishment, Dubiously Consensual Hand Jobs, Dubiously Consensual Spanking, Hand Jobs, M/M, Size Difference, Some Humor, Spanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-04
Updated: 2016-08-04
Packaged: 2018-07-29 06:23:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,701
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7673482
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RedBerrie/pseuds/RedBerrie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>“I don't know!” Alexander can hear how petulant he sounds, but he can't seem to stop. Washington looks almost amused by his outburst, which only serves to foul his mood further.</i>
</p><p>Alexander is making a pest of himself. Washington comes up with a rather creative way to shut him up.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Meet Me Inside

**Author's Note:**

> In this universe, I've tried to strike a balance between historical fact and the sheer entertainment value of the musical. Every character looks exactly like the actor who plays them in the original Broadway cast lineup. Because of that, race and racism isn't a factor in day-to-day dealings and relationships. Things like slavery are based in politics and nationality, not race. The events that happen will be a mixture of the play and the historical record. I'll try to detail what's what in the end notes in each chapter.
> 
> For those not in the know, Alexander Hamilton is played by Lin-Manuel Miranda, and George Washington is played by Christopher Jackson.
> 
> This fic is a prequel of sorts to "[I Am Ruined; I Am Helpless](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7270969)" and "[Two Virginians and an Immigrant Walk Into a Room](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7572961)". You **DO NOT** need to read either fic before you read this one. I do ask, however, that anyone who has read either not post spoilers, especially not for IAR;IAH, in the comments on this fic.
> 
> Some minor non-con/dub-con situations in this fic, mostly of the "this is happening too fast for me to really consent or not" sort. Just a heads up if you're triggered by that sort of thing.

“You have to do something, sir!”

“I _have_ done something. I have written Conway directly, asking him about the passage. I expect his reply within the next few days, at which point I'll be better equipped to decide on a course of action.”

In his relatively spacious command tent, Commander-in-Chief George Washington gestures to a single letter in a mountain of papers on his desk, face impassive. One line of Thomas Conway's letter to Horatio Gates stands out amongst the rest, not due to the words themselves but simply due to their impact: “ _Heaven has been determined to save your Country; or a weak General and bad Counsellors would have ruind it._ ”

“By the time you receive his reply, it may be too late!” his aide-de-camp, Alexander Hamilton, insists. “Sir, I'm worried that they're scheming to have you replaced.” He's more than worried; he's almost convinced. But histrionics never worked with the General.

Instead of being moved by Alexander's arguments, Washington's face becomes even more reticent, if it were possible. “And if they are?” he states simply.

“If they are, then you must act now!” He strikes his fist into his palm for emphasis.

“And what would you have me do?” the General asks stoically, the calm to Alexander's storm.

“I don't know!” Alexander can hear how petulant he sounds, but he can't seem to stop. Washington looks almost amused by his outburst, which only serves to foul his mood further. He all but scowls at his commander, but turns his face away and starts to pace before he can cause himself trouble.

He brainstorms, trying to find a way to nip this conspiracy in the bud before it affects the General. Some part of him knows that he's working himself into a frenzy, that there's no need for his frenetic pace. But 21 year old Alexander has yet to learn enough self-control to stop himself. So, instead, he lets the riptide of mindless energy pull him under.

“Write a letter to Congress,” he all but shouts the words the moment they come to him, still pacing back and forth in front of Washington's desk. “Tell them about this snake in their midst!”

“Alexander.”

“Or write another letter to Conway! Tell him that if he doesn't stop spreading this slander, that there will be consequences!”

“Alexander!”

“Tell him that if he doesn't stop, that you'll-”

“ _Alexander!_ ”

Washington rarely raises his voice; he rarely needs to. The sheer abnormality of the situation pushes its way into Alexander's attentions, and he stops both speech and pacing.

“We are taking _no further action_ until we receive a response from General Conway,” Washington says into the silence, in a voice that says quite plainly that the matter is settled. He then makes a point of taking the letter and shoving it under a stack of papers, where it's out of sight, before picking up another packet of papers that presumably is his next order of business. “Dismissed,” he commands, not even looking up.

Normally, that would be enough, and Alexander would obediently leave the tent to his commander. This, however, was not normally. “But sir!” he squeaks as he comes around the desk to stand beside the General. His voice has a whiny element to it that he doesn't like but can't help. Washington is refusing to _see sense_ , dammit!

But Washington doesn't seem to care at all that he might be making a mistake. Instead, he gives Alexander a look that Alexander has never had directed at him before, but has been known to make lesser men piss themselves in fear and guilt. It's the kind of look that makes a body meditate on all the things they have done wrong in their life. It's the kind of look that makes jumping naked into the Delaware even though it's November seem like a good idea.

It even works on Alexander. For a time.

“Son-” Washington begins.

 _I'm not your son_ , Alexander thinks to himself, but has enough sense not to say out loud. Still, something must have shown on his face, because Washington's expression turns even more stony.

“Very well,” Washington states calmly, but with an undercurrent of something dangerous and almost sarcastic running through it. “If you insist on behaving like a small lad, you will be treated like one.”

Alexander doesn't have time to ask his commander what he means by that statement, or even to wonder about it very long, before Washington has a firm grip on the scruff of his neck.

Washington's hands are _huge_. How has he not noticed this before? The width of his palm easily spans from the base of Alexander's skull all the way to his shoulder blades.

Something almost like fear fills his throat without warning. He's never been afraid of the General before. It's a new sensation, something he's not sure how to parse.

He gets no time to even try, as the hand immediately pulls Alexander so that he suddenly finds himself laid out across his commander's lap.

That's unexpected. The position is so incongruous that he says nothing, even as that huge hand slips underneath his body to unbutton his breeches. Even as a shaft of shockingly cold air hits his bare ass as those breeches are pulled down to his knees. Even as an arm is draped across his shoulders, and that huge hand rests briefly on his ass.

It doesn't span his buttocks from hip to hip, but it comes close.

“You get twenty,” that gruff voice grumbles from on high. “Count them out loud.”

Just like that, Alexander's brain catches up to what's about to happen. For the good it does him, he suddenly realizes exactly why Washington's hand is spread out over his bare ass. He realizes it just in time for that hand to lift, and return with a sharp, stinging pain.

Alexander gasps; he can't help it. The hand rests, waiting for something, and his realizes what it wants. “One,” he chokes out somehow.

The hand raises, and returns again, this time even sharper.

“Two,” he manages to say.

And again. “Three.” And again. “Four.”

It becomes apparent, the farther this goes, that Washington isn't using but a fraction of his strength. It's apparent, because Washington slips some real wallops in amongst the normal strikes. They come at unpredictable times, and leave Alexander panting in pain.

Seventeen, eighteen, and nineteen are delivered almost simultaneously, as if Washington was growing bored and wished the punishment to be finished. They come too fast to count, and leave Alexander reeling. Unexpectedly (did he miscount? what happened to twenty?) Washington picks him up by the waist and places him back on his feet, then has to hold him steady for a moment while he regains his senses.

Only to look down at himself, and realize that he was completely erect.

His gaze darts back up, hoping that his commander hadn't noticed. Unfortunately, as Washington is almost eye level with Alexander's crotch, it was hard not to. Curiously enough, the General doesn't look annoyed or disgusted as much as he looks amused.

“Nothing to be ashamed of, son,” Washington reassures the younger man. “Here.” And, just as easily as he has manhandled Alexander around since this odd tableau began, those huge hands wrap themselves around his hips and pull him back to Washington. This time, he is positioned to sit on his commander's lap, with his back against Washington's chest. He winces as his now-sore buttocks met Washington's thighs.

Then, there was no space for thoughts of discomfort or awkwardness, because his entire nervous system shuts down as that huge hand wraps itself around his cock.

Tip to balls. Washington's hand spans his dick from tip to balls. That's all he can think as the hand starts pumping up and down.

Suddenly, Alexander is moaning again, but for a different reason. “Quiet, son,” Washington hisses in his ear, but Alexander is too far gone to notice. He moans again, and gets a handkerchief stuffed in his mouth for the trouble.

Handkerchiefs materializing out of thin air and finding their way into his mouth are no more odd than anything else that has happened over the course of the past half hour, so he ignores the piece of cloth to watch his own cock slip into and out of view as Washington's hand pumps up and down over it.

It doesn't take long after that. “It's okay, my boy,” Washington assures him, and that's all he needs to tip him over the edge. The canvas walls of the tent blend together into a white kaleidoscope of intense pleasure. Washington's other hand comes up and catches his seed as he comes with a muffled cry, pumping a few more times to make sure that Alexander is completely spent.

The handkerchief is suddenly gone from between his teeth, and the come-filled hand is in front of his nose. Alexander is no stranger to the necessity of leaving no evidence behind. He watches his own small pink tongue dart out and remove the physical proof from his commander's hand, even as he can feel Washington's breathing hitch through his back.

Then he's being lifted up again, set back on his feet. He watches as Washington's huge hands pull his breeches back up and button them, dressing him like a small child. He watches those hands twist his hips around, so he's facing the door of the tent.

 _It's over_ , one part of his brain thinks, just as another part wonders, _is that it?_ He's just trying to decide if he should wait for instructions or just leave, when he's swatted from behind, buttocks struck harder than any other blow he had received so far. He cries out in surprise and pain.

"Twenty," Washington says as an explanation. "Just a reminder that your commander always remembers. Dismissed." This time, the command works.

Alexander is halfway back to his own tent, the one he shares with Laurens and Lafayette, when his brain suddenly catches up. He stops dead on the trail, startling a pair of soldiers headed the other way.

He startles them even more when he opens his mouth to demand, “What the fuck just happened?!”

**Author's Note:**

> The "Conway Cabal", as they were called, was a group of men who were attempting to replace George Washington with Horatio Gates as the Congressional Army's commander-in-chief. The murmuring started after Washington's career hit rock bottom. The Philadelphia Campaign featured a series of defeats under Washington's command, including Philadelphia (capital at the time and home of the Congressional Congress, who were forced to flee to York, PA). Meantime, General Gates had just won the Battle of Saratoga, leading to the surrender of an entire British army (although many historians believe that the victory was more due to Benedict Arnold's actions than Gates').
> 
> Brigadier General Thomas Conway had served with distinction, and decided that he wanted the job of Inspector General. However, he was a bit of a prick, and Washington argued that his abilities and importance to the Army "exist more in his own imagination than in reality" and that there were several American-born officers who were more deserving of a promotion. (Conway was born in France.) Part of Conway's bid to get the promotion then began to include slamming Washington to Congress (I guess under the argument of "why are you listening to this guy, anyway, he's awful!"). One of those letters, to Gates, included the quote in the fic. Gates' aide, James Wilkinson, who was a huge gossip, sent a letter to General William Alexander (Lord Stirling) that included that line. (Fun Fact! Wilkinson was actually a Spanish spy.) Stirling, disturbed, forwarded Wilkinson's letter to Washington.
> 
> Washington, worried that there was a genuine conspiracy to replace him, wrote Conway a letter basically saying, "Heard you were talking shit. What gives?" Conway replied that he had, indeed, written that letter, but not that line. He then proceeds to insult Washington some more, this time to his face.
> 
> Meanwhile, Conway threatens to resign if he wasn't given the promotion. Congress caves, and Conway joined Washington and the Army for the Fun Times that were Valley Forge as their Inspector General. Washington wasn't exactly welcoming, and Conway decides to continue to be a prick and sends Washington another nasty letter. Washington then proceeds to forward the letter to Congress, along with a cover letter that basically says, "do you see what I have to put up with?"
> 
> General Mifflin, who had been part of the mudslinging from the beginning, decides that enough is enough and tells Gates. Gates, embarrassed, writes Washington to tell him that this isn't his doing, that someone has been leaking his letters, and assuring him that he has nothing to do with it and doesn't want Washington's job. Gates then challenges Wilkinson to a duel, but the challenge is denied.
> 
> The whole thing comes to a head when Gates and Conway go before Congress to try and clear their respective names. Neither man will produce the original "weak general" letter, though. Lafayette lobbies on Washington's behalf, insinuating that the French support is contingent on Washington staying in command (it wasn't, not until Lafayette returned to France "for more funds" and talked up Washington so much that the French fell in love with him). Hamilton also had been writing letters with his own personal flair; that is, ripping anyone who insults his ~~daddy~~ commander a new one. 
> 
> In the end, Mifflin and Wilkinson are forced to resign. Conway is transferred to a subordinate command, and so pretends to resign again. But it backfires when they accept the resignation. Conway then proceeds to hang around and badmouth Washington as much as he can, until General John Cadwalader challenges him to a duel and shoots him in the mouth. Somehow, Conway survives, writes a letter of apology to Washington, and returns to France.
> 
> It goes without saying, but there are no records of any soldiers being spanked as a form of punishment, although there were plenty of whippings going around. But these end notes are getting long, so I won't discuss Continental Army punishments here. Just know that they were surprisingly fair and just, even by a modern standpoint, and even though there were hangings a lot of crimes that would normally have been punished by death were punished by whippings instead, because they didn't want to lose the soldier. D'you hear that, canon-era Lams shippers? Have fun with that little piece of trivia!


End file.
